


vi. ways that the dog and the wolf say 'i love you'

by swoledor_clegainz



Series: arsan drabbles [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, game of thrones
Genre: Aged-Up AU, Angst, Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Pre-Relationship, the north fucking remembers what you did last summer, this is so sad alexa play despacito
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-06-11 05:18:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15308325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swoledor_clegainz/pseuds/swoledor_clegainz
Summary: different one word/one line prompts from tumblr, all arsan, posted as a collection. updated continuously :)





	1. stars

**stars.**

"You see it?" he rumbled, pointing up at the sky. "There. Between the clouds." 

"Yes, I see it." 

"The brightest star in the sky. The Crone's Lantern. It lights the way north for weary travelers." 

"It's beautiful," 

"Aye, it is. And that, there," He traced his finger over a cluster of stars that speckled the sky, stretching from east to west, shimmering like an ethereal tapestry. "That's the Warrior's Swordbelt." 

She chuckled softly. "Why do they call it that?" 

He creased his brow, frowning slightly. "I dunno. They just do." 

He lowered his arm to slide it about her shoulders again, sighing deeply. Around them, the night was dark and alive with the hushed notes of the forest. Crickets, rattlebugs, the yip of a wild dog somewhere amongst the winding thickets and looming rows of soldier pines. It was serene, there in the glade where they laid together upon the grass. She traced her fingers over his chest, playing with the hair that peeked from the open neck of his tunic, and looked up at him with eyes heavy with sleep. "What about the others?" 

"The Red Wanderer. The Sword of the Morning...and there. The Moonmaid's aligned with the Thief." He chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "The wildings believe it's the best time to steal a woman, when the Moonmaid's about." 

"Will you be stealing me tonight?" 

"Well, that depends..." 

She couldn't help the girlish giggle that escaped her as he bent to nip at her ear, growling and grinning against her. "Depends on what?" 

He rolled them roughly so that he was above her, almost pouncing and smirking down at her, pinning her wrists above her head as she laid beneath him upon her back.

"...on you, little wolf." 

 


	2. tact

**tact.**

 

It was something he never quite understood. Or truly, ever really thought about, if he was being honest. Tact was not a necessary weapon in any soldier's arsenal, but a luxury afforded only to those of nobler stock and more careful education than he. Matters of delicacy did not spring up often upon a warrior's path, on the straight and narrow road he trod to battle and glory. 

Somewhere along the way, he had strayed. 

Chasing rabbits, his father may have said. But it was no rabbit he pursued. 

No, the Hound was not known for his tact. He barely spoke unless necessary, keeping to himself and his words and his books, and upon the rare occasion he did speak it was words dripping with irony and surprising parry to discourage any wary servant.  _Paint stripes on a toad, it does not become a tiger._ Not that he ever  _needed_ to speak. A raise of his good brow, a flash of his glittering eyes were enough to send any sensible stable boy running - and to a lord and lady a stiff bow and nod was more than enough to suffice. 

Of course, if anyone had bothered to speak to him outside of orders and requests and reports, they might have found that he was a bright lad, however melancholy. As the years of silence and solitude wore on, he found himself grow appropriately silent and stoic. The quiet was deafening, but he soon discovered wine filled the void. 

The she-wolf was never one to bow to circumstance. 

She looks him in the eye and speaks to him as one would speak to...to a comrade. A confidante. The years pass, she grows, and she speaks to him as a friend. She grows more, gets no taller but more shapely - she's a woman. And she takes him for her lover, however unlikely (the butcher's boy, I killed your butcher's boy remember), stubbornly refusing to let him go sulk in corners as he's accustomed to.

And he wishes he could speak. 

Because she's there, so small and perfect, beneath him, breathless. She's in his lap, with her arms around his neck and her lips pressed to his ear, goading him on, whispering sweet things - and all he can do is pant and grunt like a bloody animal. He wants - gods he wants her, of course, but he wants - well, he wants to speak to her. To tell her the things he feels, the things he feels for her, things he's never felt before. The twilight haze of their lovemaking is almost enough to give him the words, the confidence...

It's a feeling foreign and frightening to a man like him, who has spent so long in the dark that he's forgotten the light.

"It's alright," she breathes, pressing her forehead to his. There's never any fear in her hooded grey eyes, never disgust. "You're a man of action..." 

"I love you," he stutters over the words, but they feel right as they cross his lips, and they make a teary smile spread across her reddened face. 

"I know," 


End file.
